


Rust and Stardust

by zombified_queer



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Affairs, Jealousy, Lust, M/M, Oral Sex, Xenobiology, Young Adult Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 15:52:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15585357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombified_queer/pseuds/zombified_queer
Summary: Enabran keeps the good doctor Kelas in the residence since they workawfullyclose together. And Elim's not jealous at all.





	Rust and Stardust

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cyrelia_J](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyrelia_J/gifts).



Eli. Eee-lie. It is an infantile nickname Doctor Parmak—Kelas, honestly—chides him with even in that thick Northern accent—Garak is the only one allowed to see the doctor's verbal poise slip—and he still uses it even though Elim's between assignments for Tain and only really came to the family home to help Mila.

"Eli."

Elim hums, looking over at the doctor. He's always loved the spectacles on Kelas, the way the metal frames accentuate how white Kelas' scales are, how silver the doctor's hair. He's never stood entirely straight—how can he, with the way his spine’s curved?—but he always has a stern, strict posture. For a Northerner.

"Mila's encouraging your less favourable habits."

Elim laughs, waving Kelas over to join him. "Next you'll be scolding me for drinking."

"You shouldn't be," Kelas says, smiling almost imperceptibly. 

"You sound like Mila," Elim says. His eyes roam the doctor's figure—he's wearing something low cut and it must not be a day for being stuck in the lab—before looking him in the eye. "Yes, mother."

"I'm old enough to have been your wet nurse, Eli," Kelas says, folding his arms over his chest. "Look over your birth certificate again and tell me who delivered you."

Elim laughs again, always enjoying the doctor's humour. "Are you too busy to show me yourself?"

Kelas shakes his head, braid swaying with the motion—Elim loves that about Kelas too, how he keeps his hair so long, and Elim wants to take Kelas' hair out of his braid, run his hand through what looks like silk—but Kelas strides off, down the hall toward Enabran's study.

"Kelas?"

"Eli."

Elim stands up. "Did you need any help?"

Kelas turns, facing Garak, a brow-ridge raised. "I'll only end up making you carry heavy containers of the most deadly diseases and poisons."

"You say that like I don't handle them in my line of work."

Kelas laughs. "You're overzealous, Eli, you'll get yourself hurt."

Elim follows Kelas—eyes trained on his hips—to the lab without another word.

Kelas directs Elim as though Elim is his junior in the lab. Elim knows nothing about what these vials do (he never does until his point of contact briefs him on their uses, a glance at their effects). All Elim knows is they're deadly and it's better to follow a bit more safety procedures than Kelas does.

He's heard rumours about Kelas: that the doctor can be stabbed and laugh it off, that he's never felt pain, that he _has_ to be a cyborg or something, that he can be found in dungeons with a whip, that he can be found in dungeons with the whip. Elim believes, if he's being generous, about one percent of them.

Kelas is too warm to be anything but flesh (Elim's brushed up against him and, once, pulled the doctor from what would have been a pretty severe fall into some spilled acids). Perhaps, if he thinks hard enough—not that it takes a lot of thought—he can imagine Kelas with a whip. It's a tantalizing image and Elim nearly drops the box of chemicals he's carrying.

"Careful, Eli," Kelas chides. Eee-lie, the long hissed 'e' and the sharp, whip-like crack of the second syllable. 

He nearly drops the box again. "I got distracted."

"I hope you don't get that distracted in the field."

"Entak—"

"You're not Entak, Eli." 

Elim adjusts the box in his arms, carefully, glass rattling against glass, liquids sloshing about. "Sorry, Kelas."

Kelas adjusts his spectacles, shakes his head, and turns back to his work.

* * *

He sleeps in the basement, like he did in his youth. Right now, the house is quiet, Mila sleeping soundly (though she can sleep through anything but Elim getting up) and not even the slightest creak of the house settling.

Some nights it's loud. Kelas, Elim's found out, screams. Not pained but the other kind of screaming. The kind of screaming that keeps Elim awake, his own scales flushing hot in the dark. Sometimes, he'll touch himself. Kelas' screams always manage to make Elim evert and then Elim will just stroke just so and massage right there. Some nights he cums, some nights he doesn't. But just hearing Kelas crying out in pleasure is enough.

Elim hopes with everything in him that Kelas is simply masturbating somewhere in the house. But with how loud Kelas is—Elim can hear it from the second floor in the basement, clear as day—he doubts it's a solo affair.

The thought of Kelas—lovely and handsome and attractive Kelas—being fucked by Enabran makes Elim's stomach turn. It makes him angry to think of Enabran making Kelas scream like that.

It makes him jealous.

The quiet, like a lullaby, soothes Elim slowly into sleep. Tonight's not a night to be listening to Kelas. He must be elsewhere on business.

Hopefully, Kelas is just having one of those nights where he works until dawn.

Hopefully he'll be there to chide Elim for oversleeping when he does wake up.

Hopefully, he'll see Kelas in the morning.

Hopefully . . .

* * *

Kelas catches him drinking. In his own defence, Elim was nipping at one of the kanar bottles in the far corner of the cellar, something sour and dusty.

"Horrible habit," Kelas scolds, taking the bottle from Elim. "You shouldn't drink or you'll end up like Enabran."

"Powerful and with a wealthy doctor on my arm?"

"You!" Kelas, with his free hand, gives Elim a gentle swat on the backside. "Run along, you brat."

"I'm not a brat," Elim protests. "And I'm not a child. I could take the bottle back from you if I wanted."

"And how would you do that?" Kelas asks.

Elim puts a hand on Kelas' hip, more to steady himself than anything, and reaches for the bottle. Kelas, too quick than any old man has any right to be and too flexible to be explained, twists to hold the bottle out of Elim's hold. 

Realizing what an opportunity this is, Elim leans in, lips pressing against he corner of Kelas' mouth as the doctor twists out of Elim's hold completely. 

Elim falls face-first into the dust and cobwebs. He laughs, rolling over onto his back.

"I'm glad, Elim, you find this so amusing."

Kelas only ever uses his first name when he's truly upset with Elim.   
Looking up at the doctor, Elim says, "Have you ever been told you're really attractive?"

"Funny." Kelas' voice is cold. Hard. "I'm sure Mila would love to hear about this."

"Kelas," Elim pouts. "I just wanted to kiss you."

"Brat." Kelas corks the bottle, putting it back where Elim found it. "Get up."

"Do you need me to carry something?" Elim stumbles to his feet, standing stock-still while things sway around him. 

"In a way."

* * *

Elim ends up holding buckets of ice in Kelas' lab. It seems almost wasteful, but Kelas delights in snapping at Elim to hold them higher, his arms rod-straight from shoulder to wrist.

It's cold in the lab today and Kelas seems not to mind it at all. 

Kelas is bent over some lap report, reading it intensely. Elim gets a nice view, from his position, of Kelas' wide hips, his round ass, his thick thighs. Elim wants nothing more than to grab Kelas by the hips again, grind against the doctor.

"Arms high," Kelas scolds, not looking over his shoulder, as if he has eyes hidden under his white silk hair. 

"How long do I have to keep this up?"

"Until that ice melts," Kelas answers."Kelas, you're being cruel."

"No whining, either, Elim."

Elim sighs, keeping his arms up as he holds the buckets of ice up, arms straight. He can only fixate on the ache in his arms and the chill in his body. He wonders, vaguely as he catches a glance at Kelas’ biceps, how the Northerner can be so used to such cold. Perhaps, Elim thinks, it's for the specimens' sakes.

Kelas hums, coming around the table to look at some slides. When Kelas bends over, just barely, Elim can see the gentle slope of scales. It makes Elim squirm.

Kelas isn't a large-breasted image of a Northern woman with an enticing look, not like the images Elim's seen in Tain's study, hidden well enough but still obvious if one knows Tain. But Kelas does have a hint of padding to his chest that suggests something more. Something that, given Kelas' penchant for low cut shirts, entices Elim more than any pornographic stereotype could.

"You're squirming," Kelas says. "So young and with no patience."

"You'll let me go?"

"I'll take you over my knee," Kelas warns. "I think Enabran's spoiled you. Made you a brat."

"He's never spoiled me a day in my life," Elim argues.

"Eli," Kelas sighs. When he stands at his proper height, Elim swallows, his brain crying out at the loss of that enticing image of Kelas' exposed scales. "Alright. But. I need you to carry some things for me."

"I can do that, Kelas," Elim insists. The ache in his arms begs otherwise. 

Kelas raises a brow ridge. "I'm sure."

* * *

Tonight, Kelas is screaming.

Elim likes to imagine Kelas being laid on his back, thighs spread invitingly, ajan delightfully wet, but capable of taking so much, those alien breasts on display with Kelas' tunic or blouse pushed up. 

While Kelas goes on screaming like a feral thing upstairs, Elim everts, biting his lip almost to the point of drawing blood. 

He strokes himself, Elim drinks in Kelas' cries of delight. He thinks about how easy it might be to make Kelas cum by fixating on his breasts, those sensitive nipples, the supple flesh. He nearly cums as Kelas screams again, the image of Kelas' nipples being abused under his hands stuck in Elim's mind. 

He manages not to cum, taking his hand away from himself, breathing slow, deep, even breaths. 

Kelas' cries die off, becoming just breathy moans before fading into relative silence. The house creaks, as if it's actively being shaken by Kelas. 

That thought leaves Elim's thighs wet and sticky. 

As gingerly as he can, Elim gets out of bed, hoping not to rouse Mila.

"Elim?"

"Just needed a glass of water, mother."

Mila makes an exasperated laugh. "You're so difficult."

But she turns over in the dark, sheets rustling about her, and goes back to sleep. Elim sighs, going to the first floor to clean himself up. In the bathroom, he swears under his breath—swears at Kelas for being a loud tease and a prude, swears at Enabran for being able to get Kelas into bed, swears at his own mother for being such a light sleeper, swears at himself for being so affected Nokaran whore. 

He sighs. "I didn't mean it."

He finishes the spot-treatment of cleaning and turns off the lights, going back to sleep. Elim just wishes, for a moment, his bed wasn't so cold.

* * *

Elim hates the old wooden doors in Tain's house. They're horribly out-dated and lavish, an expense that exists only because of Tain's paranoia and love for ancient methods of privacy. 

Mila was up early and out of the house on some errands for the house and Enabran, so Elim heads to the lab to get an early start on assisting Kelas.

The lab is empty.

The next reasonable place to look for Kelas is Tain's study. Often, Tain and Kelas will be holed up in there going over field reports and poison recipes, talking in hushed tones with the door locked.

Elim climbs the stairs, being as quiet as possible. The second floor has always felt like trespassing, even when he was just sneaking a peek at the fascinating books of Northern vixens in Tain's study. He always feels like the second floor of the house is where secrets lie, hiding in every shadow and corner.

The door to the study is ajar. 

He's not supposed to, but Elim can't resist peeking in. 

Kelas is bouncing in Tain's lap, the Northerner's blouse pulled up to reveal those wonderfully pale scales and skin, the deep flushed grey that makes his delicate ridges and nipples look purple. 

"Oh!" Kelas groans as Tain's thick fingers tweak one of the doctor's nipples. "I would-ah!-hate to give Garak a sister."

Tain doesn't reply, just grunts as he continues fucking Kelas, the doctor on display from the waist up from behind the desk. Elim swallows, jealousy rising in him. He wants so badly to throw open the door, demand Tain to stop, to shout at him to think of Mila. 

But he fears what Tain might do if he does interrupt.

Kelas makes a low whine, his bouncing in Tain's lap stilled. Elim can guess where Tain's hands are.

"Enabran, you really should learn to pull out," Kelas huffs. "Or at least use condoms with me."

Tain laughs against Kelas' neck. "I know all about your tendencies to sleep around, Kelas. You love being used."

Elim turns away from the door, feeling sick. He retreats downstairs, mind racing with arguments to confront Kelas or to pretend he's never seen a thing. He settles on going to the lab, trying not to think about Kelas fucking Tain. He starts in on moving some of the heavier boxes Kelas had asked him to, focused entirely on keeping with Kelas' complex system of organization.

"Eli?"

Nearly dropping the box in his arms, he startles. He looks over, Kelas dressed as prim and proper and provocative as ever but with his hair loose. The doctor raises a brow ridge.

"Is something wrong?"

"Kelas . . ." Elim considers the question, heavy in his mouth and struggling to find the words for it.

Kelas, unperturbed, gets started on his work, some new recipe Tain's requested.

"Kelas, are you fertile?"

The doctor laughs, a rich and cold sound in the lab. "You overheard us, then? Naughty boy, Eli." He turns, looking over his shoulder at Elim. "Don't tell Enabran, but I don't think you'll be having a sister."

"Oh." Elim goes back to his work.

"You sound so disappointed, Eli," Kelas teases. "I'm sure if you ask nicely, Enabran—"

"No!" And this time he does drop the box. 

The smile disappears from Kelas' face immediately. "Out."

"What?"

"Get out. You've made a mess."

Elim nods. "Kelas."

Kelas regards Garak coldly. "Elim."

"I'm sorry."

* * *

Tain places a hand on Elim's shoulder, a sign of pride from the older Cardassian. It's taken years for Elim not to flinch, even longer to smile just right so as not to seem ungrateful.

"Kelas has appreciated your help."

"I have an intense need to make myself feel useful," Elim answers. "Kelas needs someone to lift things and do menial tasks while he focuses on his research."

"He's something isn't he?"

"Indeed." And Elim thinks about Kelas, the doctor with his hair loose, head thrown back in pleasure. He licks his lips, trying to swallow down all his emotions except cold indifference. "He's . . . interesting."

"I consider him a valuable asset," Tain says. "A right-hand if I ever had one."

"Am I your left hand?"

Tain laughs. Elim forces himself to stand a bit straighter instead of shrinking back. 

"My eyes and ears when you're not clinging to Kelas' skirt," Tain answers. 

Elim nods.

"I'm arranging your next assignment," Tain says. "I've something special planned for you, Elim. I sincerely hope you do not disappoint me."

"Enabran, I could never refuse a task and only my death will leave things undone."

"I hope so." Tain nods. "Go. Spend time with your mother. Send her my regards. I apologize for being so occupied these days."

"I'll be sure to," Elim says. He won't.

* * *

"Kelas?"

"Elim."

"I've finished organizing those vials," Elim say softly, quietly, as if just speaking is a capital crime.

"Good."

"Kelas, please, I'm sorry."

The doctor stands up straight. He's a bit shorter than Garak but there's something calculating and cold in Kelas' eyes that makes Elim feel terribly small and powerless.

"Would you do anything to make me forgive you?"

"Anything, Kelas."

"Bark when I say bark?"

"I'd howl if you wanted it," Elim answers. 

Kelas hums, considering the offer. "There's one thing you can do."

Elim nods.

"On your knees."

Elim sinks to his knees without another complaint, looking up at Kelas. 

Considering Elim coldly, Kelas cards gentle fingers through Elim's hair before grabbing roughly, forcing Elim's head back.

"I'm not your fucktoy, Elim," Kelas hisses. "You do not touch me unless I give you permission."

"Yes, Kelas."

"Good boy." Kelas studies Elim. "I know you probably think Nokarans are all busty sluts who roll right over for cock, but Elim, if you make that mistake, I'll punish you so horribly, you'll wish Tain got his hands on you."

Elim nods, swallowing. This side of Kelas—this dark and dominant creature—excites him more than the thought of just fucking Kelas over his desk. 

"Now," Kelas says, pulling down his tights enough that Garak can see his slit, the scales there just barely darkened with arousal, "put your mouth to some use besides lying through your teeth."

When Elim raises his unsure hands, Kelas shakes his head and Elim drops his hands to the floor, balancing himself on all fours while he leans in, lapping clumsily at Kelas. The doctor hardly seems affected other than a certain disappointment while he looks over some of the latest reports. 

That only makes Elim more determined. He's no virgin—far from it—but he's never dealt with anyone who wasn't everted, presenting him with a challenge. So he listens for those hums of approval and soft hisses of delight while he eats Kelas out.

"Elim." The only warning he gets before Kelas everts into Elim's mouth. 

And know he knows exactly what to do, where to suck, how to use his tongue. Kelas groans openly, hips thrust against Elim's mouth, forcing Elim to accommodate that into the routine. 

Kelas goes quiet when he cums in Elim's mouth, shivering but still able to stand. His glasses are askew, face flushes a darker grey than his normal white-cast scales. He looks down at Elim.

"You need some practice," Kelas notes coldly. "I don't think you've ever tasted ajan in your life."

Elim licks Kelas clean before answering, "I'll do better."

"I would hope so," Kelas says. "Now go. I think Tain has something for you."

* * *

Tain reminds Elim of the worms that grow fat from feeding on corpses, their black bodies writhing as they tear into the dead over and over. And Tain's exactly that—a carrion-feeding worm, a parasite.

"Elim." Tain's voice is cold, all business.

"Sir."

"I hope you're not too attached to Kelas," Tain says. "I have a certain . . . mistrust of him."

Elim shrugs. "Kelas is like a third parent."

"Of course. That's why you fantasize about him all the time." Tain smiles. "I've seen the way you look at him, Elim."

"Sir. Forgive me."

"I will, if you'll do one little chore, Elim."

Elim blinks, waiting the orders. He dreads them, not wanting to really hurt Kelas, not wanting to send him to the execution block.

"I suspect he's been . . . consorting with less than acceptable company. I don't want him dead, but I want his associates by name," Tain says. 

"I understand, sir," Elim mutters. 

"Good. Go."

Elim turns to leave, his hand on the doorknob.

"And Elim?"

"Yes sir?" Elim keeps his glare focused on the wood of the door.

"The next time you fall into bed with Kelas, wash yourself off before you come in here," Tain says. "Nokarans reek like animals."

"Yes, sir."

And it takes every measure of control not to turn and insult Tain, not to hurl something heavy at him. Instead, Elim leaves Tain's study and considers the problem of Kelas Parmak.


End file.
